The Moon and the Stars
by youcanreachthestars
Summary: A Faithless Marriage. An Uninterested Audience. John knew hardly anybody would show up. After all, now that Sherlock was dead, he didn't matter anymore. Which suited him just fine. And to be perfectly honest, nothing mattered to him- except that one man.


The bells sang out across the churchyard. John closed his eyes, and swayed slightly. He couldn't believe it. This was it. His grip tightened around his walking stick. He blinked a couple of times trying to clear his eyes from the tears. He heard slight footsteps to his left, but didn't turn. He knew it would be Molly walking up the aisle, head bowed, doing her duty to both he and Sherlock.

Instead, he looked out to the East, over the church gardens, over the dozens of gravestones, until he found the one he was looking for. Slate-grey marble, dulled and chipped from years of neglect and vandalism. Hundreds of citizens had come to pay their disrespects, kicking at the stone, leaving bunches of weeds or spiteful letters. Every day, John had come to the graveyard, cleared away the disrespect, and stroked the stone. Put his head against the cool marble, and whispered everything and anything to Sherlock. And every time, he buried a small note just beside the headstone. It said the same thing, always.

_I love you. I miss you. Please come home._

Just last week it had been defaced with yellow graffiti, just like the Black Lotus had left, all those years ago. But he had checked, and double checked, and triple checked for a message, but this time, it was just mindless destruction. He had tried his best to scrub it off, but to no avail. He could see it now. It practically glowed in the half-light, mocking him. Molly was facing him now. She stroked his cheek, wiped away the tear he didn't know was there. That happened a lot, these days. He turned away from the grave stiffly, and nodded to her. He didn't know what else to do.

"It's okay John," she whispered. "Please, believe me. Everything will be okay."

But he couldn't even look her in the eye.

The priest's words blurred in his ears, a messy jumble of this and that and everything and anything, but nothing anybody said could bring him back. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to make out what he was saying.

But ever since the sickening crack, he hadn't heard things right.

Molly smiled across at him. She was trying her best. This was hard for her. She gripped her hand tightly around his, and John glanced down, mildly surprised. He hadn't even realised they were holding hands. It always felt like his hand was full with another's. They had held hands just the once, running through the streets of London, terrified, fleeing from the police, assassins, the press, everyone. Anyone. All that mattered was the two of them, and nothing else.

He smiled back, but it was a sad smile. His eyes remained cold and hard, an aching pain woven into the irises, still as sharp and fresh as it was on that fateful, overcast day.

Molly looked beautiful in the evening light, that was true, the dusk casting mesmerising shadows over her face, transforming her swan-white gown into the lightest of lilacs. John could feel the ring in his pocket like a stone, weighing him down to the ends of the earth.

Would Sherlock be there? At the ends of the earth?

He didn't have time to find out. The priest was continuing with his words, his sentences, taking John and Molly closer and closer to something that didn't matter to either of them.

His eyes passed over the rows of chairs in the audience, uninterested. More people than he had expected showed up. He suspected most of them were here for Molly. He had trapped himself in 221B Baker Street, denying himself any social activity or public association. Only the people in the front row he knew. Did he even have friends before he met Sherlock? He didn't know.

Mrs Hudson's eagle eyes were focused on him, and him alone, watching desperately for any signs of a breakdown. She had been his rock these past few years, having dinner with him almost every night and spending extraordinary amounts of time taking care of him, despite his refusals. He tried to give her a smile, but only managed a weak twitch of the lips. She knew what he meant, though, and gave him a small wave.

Greg Lestrade was next to her checking something on his phone. He was always at work, just like how Sherlock was. John shook his head slightly. No, Lestrade was a good man. He still called John once a week, and called on him for the occasional medical question. He knew that his help wasn't actually needed, but it was nice to be included, in any case. Sally and Anderson were next to him, holding hands. Sally had a small ring on her finger. _When did that happen?_ Lestrade had probably mentioned it on the phone some time when he wasn't listening.

Sarah was there too, sitting just a little uncomfortably. _Understandable_, he mused. _After all, they did date for a while, and this was his wedding. Still, she didn't have to come. None of them did. None of them should even be here, Sherlock didn't like any of them, he wouldn't want any of them to be here, why are they here._

His face must have contorted, because Molly sighed and breathed in his, "Today can be about you, remember. It's allowed to be about you."

John shook his head. "It's never going to be about me."

The priest's mumbling continued. In amongst the foreign words, he caught one, a word his therapist was important for today.

_Vows._

The words came out heavy, bricks in his mouth dropping out one by one and smashing on the cement beneath his feet. Then it was Molly's turn. She also said them awkwardly; strings of words messily patched together like a quilt.

The audience stirred, restless.

Anderson coughed.

_How dare he cough, when Sherlock is so close to him, so close to me. He has no right to do that, he shouldn't be here, he can't be here, he-_

Molly glanced at John, a warning look in her eye.

John straightened up and took a sharp, deep breath. He was on his best behaviour.

"Sorry," he muttered. His teeth were sharp on his tongue.

"Nearly there, John, just hold on this long. A few more minutes."

"Why do you keep saying that? A few more minutes until what? A few more minute until we get married? You know that has no meaning for either of us Molly, I-"

The priest cleared his throat loudly.

John bowed his head and squeezed her hand.

"As I was saying," continued the priest, "If there are any objections, let them be heard now, or forever hold your peace."

A deafening silvery silence rolled over the churchyard, thick and lukewarm.

_Let there be a miracle, any miracle, anything at all. Let him come back. Let him cry out, let him walk up the aisle, and scream an objection, scream that he will marry me instead. _

"I OBJECT."

John jerked his head up with a snarl, ready to tear apart the man who took away his moment, his dream for Sherlock to scream that out. His knuckles were white around his stick.

But suddenly, his face was even whiter, whiter than Molly's gown, whiter than Lestrade's tie, whiter than the moon drifting on it's lonely voyage across the skies.

Lonely no more.

His face was just as pale as the man's walking up the aisle towards him.

The priest stuttered. "Uh, are you-"

"I said," Sherlock spat, "I object. Thankyou Molly, you can sit down now."

He turned, slowly, deliberately, to face his friend. "Hello John."

The stick clattered to the ground, and they fell into each other's arms.

"I hate you, so much," John whispered through his tears. "You stupid, sick bastard, you can just go die again, how dare you, you should burn in hell," but even as he was saying it, his hands were running through Sherlock's tangled mane and running over his body, and Sherlock's were doing the same, and their lips were dancing together in the sky, floating away, and they were fire and ice together, and water and wind, and earth and blood and everything that would ever matter.

They were the moon and the stars, reunited at last.


End file.
